Zander shakes his head, a silent denial that screams louder than any words. "He'll be fine," he mumbles more to himself than anyone else.
Chance fumbles with the buckle of his belt, his fingers trembling too much to get a grip. Samantha leans over him. "Do we need to call someone?" she asks, her voice tight with worry.
No one tells her yes. We're all thinking it, though. Thinking it and too scared to say it.
The bus feels like it's shrinking, the walls closing in as we exchange pointed looks and nervous glances while Angelo continues to berate us for something we didn’t do. But that’s just his personality. He’s loud and brash because that’s how he gets shit done. You need a guy like that to handle guys like us.
Chance tries to sit up, and he manages to take a couple of steps before his body sags into the nearest couch. "I'm good," he mumbles, but no one believes him. Not even Chance, if he's being honest.
I lean against the far wall, watching it all unfold for a few minutes. Watching Chance disappear in slow motion.
Angelo yells, "Damn it, boy. Tell me what you want to do?"
"Buddy, look." Sam drops into a crouch in front of him. "We can get you help. But you need to tell me if you’re up for it. Because if you’re out of here today, you’re not going back on the road until you pull yourself together."
There's a moment where everything stills, a breath caught in a shared lung.
Chance's head lolls to the side, and Justice lets out a low whistle. "That bad, huh?" he says, but his bravado is slipping too.
Angelo glares at him, then at the rest of us, like we're all complicit in this mess. Maybe we are. Maybe that's what hurts the most. Zander's phone buzzes and he clutches it as if it has all the answers we need to fix this situation.
Samantha brushes Chance’s forehead. "He's burning up," she says, panic creeping into her voice.
I catch her eyes, then Angelo's, and then I stare at the floor. Looking anywhere but at Chance, because I can't stand to see him like this. Angelo kicks the table again and lets out a frustrated scream. "Get a damn fan in here!" he shouts, but unlike earlier, no one moves. No one knows how to fix this. "And get all of these people out!" He gestures at the girls clustered in the corner. They look wide-eyed, tipsy, and misplaced. They were supposed to party with us, but it’s clear that Justice’s prediction was correct.
The mood is dreadful.
Samantha's shaking hand clutching her phone is the last thing I see before I close my eyes to block it all out.
I’m trying to pretend this isn't happening. But it is. It's happening, and it's tearing us apart.
"Out!" Angelo orders, and I hear the shuffle of boots and the click of high heels as all the unnecessary guests move in the direction of the exit.
A heavy knock reverberates off the bus's door. We all freeze, caught mid-action, mid-panic.
I open my eyes and look toward the sound.
Chance's ragged breathing fills the pause, a grim reminder of what's at stake.
Angelo barks for quiet, his irritation flaring like a struck match. "Who the hell is it?" he growls, marching to the door with heavy, impatient steps. He passes the girls he’s trying to kick out stuck in the middle of the bus. "The band isn’t taking any visitors."
The rest of us hold our breath, suspended in a moment that stretches too long yet not long enough.
The door creaks open, and a roadie pops his head in. His voice is low, but I can still make out his words. "Someone’s looking for Cruz."
"Can’t you see we’re busy?" Angelo shouts at the poor guy.
"She won’t leave."
My mind snaps awake.
She.
Angelo glances at his watch. "Who the hell could be looking for him at this hour?"
The roadie shrugs. "I don’t know her. She’s got orange hair."
All eyes turn to me, questioning silently.
